Chores
by Sideshow Cellophane 26
Summary: Eight years on the island. Is an especially pushy day of chores for Gilligan, from the same schedule the castaways have created for themselves, enough to push him off that annoying plot cliff? Or will it make him snap all the way, so he'll be forced to turn over the army of angry and hungry hummingbirds against the castaways? Read to find out!
1. Strike

"**GILLIGAN!**"

Gilligan's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he scrambled off his cozy hammock. "Y-y-yes sir?" Despite being awoken from the repeating dream of eating seven hamburgers and six orders of fries (and one order of onion rings) while drinking three milkshakes (and a soda) at the old diner in his old hometown, Gilligan was wide awake.

And hungry—from the deepest chambers of his iron stomach, he felt the familiar ache of hunger that had felt every morning for the past eight years.

And it would continue to ache. Mentally, Gilligan counted off his fingers all of the morning chores he was to do before breakfast: get firewood from the forest, fruits for the girls for breakfast and lunch, help Mr. Howell with another problem that wasn't an actual problem, get the Professor some sort of rock he needed for another useless experiment, and then make a fire from the firewood.

Every day, Gilligan woke up this way. And every day, he wondered whether or not the Skipper would decide to help _him_ instead of "_helping_" the girls cook breakfast. Or anyone for that matter.

But, as soon as the Skipper finished his short rant, Gilligan still said, "Yes sir."

"And after you're done with all of that I want you to eat breakfast. _And that's an order!_" He said threateningly.

"Yes sir. I'll get right on it."

True to his word, Gilligan began to collect the firewood. For eight years now, things had gone on like this. Er, not eight years—things had changed around the third or fourth year.

The castaways had fallen into a schedule: they'd get up. The Howells would take a stroll around the forest (which, by now, was formed into an actual path), the girls would cook breakfast, Professor would lock himself into his hut, and the Skipper claimed that he helped the girls with breakfast.

"And you know what I get to do?" He asked himself, some bitterness coming out, "I get to work hard for everybody else while they sit around and _eat!_" He threw down his arm load of wood, staring at his actual arms.

They had grown stronger over the years. Bigger, even. He also noticed every day, when he found a few seconds to look around—nobody else had seemed to change except for the Howell's new shades of white and gray hair strands, and the Skipper.

He had grown fatter.

Maybe they all had, which was pretty ironic if they did. All there was to eat were fruits, whatever Mary Ann grew in her garden, and seafood. And, of course, the pies the girls cooked up.

But even Gilligan knew that a diet of only these things should whittle a person down to the bones.

"Heh. Or turn a person inside-out!" He giggled, heading back to camp.

When the firewood was by the pit, he turned right into Mary Ann.

_Uh-oh_. _She has her hands on her hips._

"Gilligan! Where have you been?! Ginger and I need to make breakfast!"

"But Skipper told me to—"

"Oh, I don't care about that right now! Everybody's hungry and it's all because of you!" She lifted her hands in the air and threw them back down.

"Okay, I'll go pick some fruit right now, promise!" He sulked off while she ran around camp like Rosie, the red hummingbird that hung around his favorite part of the forest. "If it was so important, why didn't you go pick them yourself?"

He didn't dare say that in front of her though.

After eight years on the island, his and Mary Ann's relationship had become different. Sure, they were still close, but not the kind of close they were the first few years.

"I miss it the way it used to be. When everybody would yell at me and get over it and say sorry. Now they just get mad and get real mad at _me!_"

He plucked some berries off of their bushes and several bananas, tossing them into the fruit bag. After eating some, since when he was done with all of these chores they'd be gone. He went back to camp, where everybody sat expectantly at the table.

He listened to their complaints, apologized for being alive and shipwrecked with them, and went back into the forest for whatever it was the professor wanted. After being yelled at by the Skipper for not finishing the "daily chores" yet.

"Let's see—the Professor wants some sort of rock in the sand." He shrugged, and climbed his secret Hiding-Tree, where his rock collection was.

Gilligan got out a rock that he had stubbed his toe on, one that looked _just like_ the sand! Only harder. And it had an indescribable shape; it was one of his favorite treasures. Professor had said it was called something that started with an 'f,' but Gilligan couldn't remember it. Fullgurgitate? Fulgurate? Gurgle?

He gave it one last sad look, knowing he would never see it again, shoved it in his pocket, and headed back to camp.

_A bunch of chores down, several more to go!_

Professor accepted the rock, giving Gilligan a great big smile before saying something science-y he didn't understand. Or care to remember.

Now Mr. Howell pulled him over. "Gilligan," He whispered, looking around. Phft, as if they were being watched. "I need you to do something extra important for me, you hear my boy?"

He sighed some. "Sure, Mr. Howell. But if it's about your polo pony, then you'd need to see Professor about that."

He made a pouty face, "But the—"

"Sir, the Professor can help you more than I can with your pony's broken leg. Maybe you should even consider building another, or having him do it for you. I need to do something extra important, for—"

"But this time is different! I _need_ you, Gilligan!"

"Well, sir,_ I_ need me more! You'll just have to need the Professor more than me right now."

He ran away before Mr. Howell could say another word, towards the bushes in the forest.

When the billionaire was gone, he snuck into his hut, grabbed the "Runaway" duffel bag packed with clothes and other essential survival items, and started running at top speed for the other side of the island.

* * *

Gilligan stopped at a cave, one he recognized from years ago. When he had first attempted to run away, but the others all found him. Well, it had been at the very _least_ five years since anybody was here.

He could rest in peace. For now.

"And then I'll have to go back. I have to! They won't be able to—to survive wi-without me. Huh." A grin slowly spread across his face. "I think it's about time for them to see how much work _really_ needs to be done around there! I _quit!_"

With that, he laid back on the soft sand, covering himself with the gray blanket that was as old as Father Time. Maybe older, considering the smell.

Gilligan ignored it, letting his eyes close.

* * *

The next day, Gilligan was awakened by the Skipper. "Gilligan! Where were you yesterday?! Why did you run away? We needed you!"

"How did you find me?!" He squeaked out in disbelief.

"We checked everywhere but here. Now c'mon! We need you to do…"

But even after his list of daily chores and many threats to 'get his butt up,' Gilligan still wouldn't budge.

"Gilligan," Skipper said in an especially dark tone, "_Please_ get up and do your share of the chores."

_Share? You mean we SHARE those chores?_

He sighed, lifting his sailor's cap and looking at him. "Skipper?"

"Yes, little buddy?"

"Do you really want all of those chores done right now?"

"Yes, little buddy."

"Collecting firewood for a fire is important for first thing in the morning on a hundred-degree deserted Hawaiian island?"

He stuttered a little, "Ah, well . . ."

"And getting fruit for the girls so they can add it onto that growing pile in the supply hut?"

"Yes!" He snapped.

"And helping everybody else with things they can do themselves, because we have all the time in the whole entire universe? But you guys pretend like we don't and I need to do them for you because you're all so busy with sitting around, complaining you're all bored?"

"YES, GILLIGAN! _Now go do you share of the chores!_"

"It's really that important, Skipper?"

"YES." He spoke through his teeth.

"Oh," He nodded, dropping the cap back over his face. "Then you can do them yourself, can't you?"

* * *

**Yeah . . . Don't ask me where this came from. :P**


	2. Breakfast!

**Okay, you people pulled my leg.**

**Here ya go!**

* * *

Gilligan had been on 'strike' for a full four days now. And, no matter how much pestering they did to him, the castaways couldn't get him to do one single chore aside from one: collect firewood.

But _after_ breakfast.

And sure, he did some of the personal favors, like get his clothes from the laundry bin so Mary Ann could cook, and play caddy for the Howells—stuff like that. But that was it. No more of the same schedule, no more yelling at him to do pointless things, no more blaming _him_ for everything wrong or boring in their lives.

The day before though, Skipper had been furious with Gilligan's strike. He had mostly been furious that the man hadn't responded to any of his threats or yelling, as Gilligan usually did. He had almost torn the boy's arm off trying to drag him out of that cave and back to camp (which, unfortunately for Gilligan, had been successful). Though it caused him to choose a different cave and hide there for a full two days time before casually coming out of the forest, only to plop down in his usual seat at the breakfast table, to the shock of everyone else (who had not seen him for two days!).

But they had learned quickly he wouldn't do any of the normal actions only a Gilligan would do, and he would not be persuaded. Even the professor's reverse-psychology did not work on the boy, who took it as a sign that he was doing quite well.

Ginger had tried to coax him into helping her make breakfast with Mary Anne and Skipper.

Gilligan had refused the offer, as he did with most anything that involved the grudge-holding old sailor.

And now, today, he was playing with Rosie and her family. That is to say, Rosie the _hummingbird_ and her family.

Gilligan sighed, plopping down on the ground and setting his head in his hand. "Rosie?"

The hummingbird circled around his head.

"I think I'm depressed."

She landed in front of the man, cocking her head a little.

"I mean, we've made this schedule, and we've had it for a coupla' years now."

She flew back up into the air, hovering in front of him.

"Just a few days ago, I made everybody really mad by breaking it."

A few other hummingbirds started flying around his body in a circle.

"Oh, hey Arnold, Lizzy, Charles, and Sammy." Just for the record, Sammy _was_ a girl. He figured that out after watching her lay the triplets. "Maybe you could help me too."

They all proceeded to land on him.

"I just don't know what to do anymore! It's really confusing, and that's why I'm asking you guys for help."

Rosie, Sammy, and Lizzy all chirped.

He grimaced, "And gals. I broke their schedule by stopping my "daily chores." Skipper got real mad too, you should've seen the shade of red his face was! I never even knew that color _existed!_" He giggled, then went back to being serious. "We haven't had anyone come to the island in years. It seems like _forever _since we spoke to anyone else! Maybe even forever and _three days!_ Huh. Hey, maybe that would do something to break us outta that schedule! Somebody _else_ who agrees with me! But I don't want everybody to hate me for this—but I _really_ don't want everything to go back to normal!"

Charles pecked his head.

"Ow! Hey, whaddya do that for?"

The rest of them started pecking his head, making Gilligan jump up and start running into the forest.

"Ow! Quit it! Hey, I said stop!"

He was practically herded into a nearby cave, where the hummingbirds left him in peace. He dusted off his hat, humphing. "As Mrs. Howell would say: Well! I'd _never!_ Whatever that means." He shrugged, looking around. There was a small light at the end of the cave, very faint, but there. And what smelled like . . .

"BACON!" He started running as fast as he could push his legs, shocked he could still remember what bacon even smelled like.

Soon, he could see where the light was coming from—a hole in the ground. That meant the cave went downwards, beneath the island, if he dared go any farther.

On the other hand, there was a big log, and a plateful of food sitting right on it.

Gilligan halted in his tracks, mouth agape, staring at the single plate. He approached the table, making indescribable voices with his mouth. "Ah-ha-ha-a-a-a-a-ah! FOOD!"

Despite the tiny voice in his head telling him it wasn't his to eat, Gilligan dove right into that food, not a worry or care where it came from.

* * *

With the treat of bacon, eggs, and sausage safely in his system, he sat back, the happiest he could be and had been in many long years.

Gilligan looked around—there was a black duffel bag behind the log. He didn't touch it; he already ate their food!

"Speaking of which . . ." There was another plate behind that log—It had a fully cooked chicken on it, wrapped in plastic! "Gosh! I need to tell everybod—ooh."

With how much food there really was, Gilligan wanted to make this one last. And besides—who was this person? Was he or she another crazy person? A killer? Or sombody as nice as Mary Ann? Or may be even . . . somebody _twice_ as nice as Mary Ann! If that even _existed_ in a person.

"I'll wait here for you, Whoever-You-Are!" He plopped down next to the duffel bag, away from the opening of the hole above him and in the shadows.

Rosie happened to fly down at that moment, landing on his leg.

He grinned. "Thank you, Rosie! I wouldn't have swatted you guys away if I had known this was what you were leading me to—sorry!"

With a small chirp, she flew back out.

* * *

**Okay . . . I guess I have no choice but to continue it now. XP Please review and tell me whatcha' think! :)**


	3. Angelina

**Finally, sorry for the wait!**

* * *

The very next day, Gilligan yawned, stretched, and came out of his hut.

"Hi, Gilligan."

"Hey, Mary Ann. Why do you sound so . . ." She walked away before he had the chance to finish the question. "So sad."

He sighed, and ran back into the forest to see if the person was there.

He/she wasn't, but upon further inspection of the camp, there was breakfast! Bacon, eggs, all on a frying pan on a fire.

_A fire . . ? A FIRE!_

He knelt down and put his hand on it, but drew back. "Ooh! Hot!" he stuck his fingers in his mouth. "Hot… that means somebody was just here! Hey, are you there?" He called out, "Whoever you are, thank you for the food! Hey, a note."

There was a tiny slip of paper under the bags.

"Thanks for the note!" He opened it, and started reading. "'Dear sir, you're welcome for the food. I have been on this island for a short period of time now, and I am running out of food. I thought I was alone until I saw you going into that cave, and then that man coming in and dragging you out.'" He sighed. "Was hoping nobody saw that. But the letter—'I would like to meet you this afternoon, at seven o'clock, in this cave. P.S, can you come alone?'"

He smiled guiltily, looking at the food.

"Well, now I feel bad about eating the bacon." He gulped, grabbed a piece, put it back, and ran outside.

He ran back and grabbed it, and then ran back out.

* * *

"Hi Skipper!" He ran past the Skipper, who was carrying several coconuts. "Need any help?"

Because it had all started with it, Gilligan had only refused to help with the unneeded chores. Such as carrying firewood back to camp. But, he would stay helpful in all of the other ways. This the other castaways, besides the Professor, did not understand quite yet.

"No thanks, Gilligan. Just carrying this back for dinner tonight." He spoke calmly, but with a hidden message.

That Gilligan of course did not get. "Oh, okay. Need help with anything at all?"

"Yes, actually."

"What is it?"

"Carrying the firewood."

Gilligan got the memo now. His eyes widened, and lip pouted out in self-defense. He spoke quietly, "You know I can't do that, Skipper." He ran the opposite direction. "I'm sorry!"

Even he knew it was more than just firewood. It had started out completely different in the beginning, when they first shipwrecked. It was when they were all for freedom, before any rules had completely set in, those first three or four years. And then . . . it had changed. Like something lifted off the island . . . Gilligan tossed the thought around.

_It was like something was lifted off of us. Not our friendship—our solitude? Like we really were alone._

Something none of them had felt since before the storm. Gilligan wanted to say that it was their freedom being taken away, but it was the exact opposite. They were _given_ their freedom, and that was when things went wrong.

_We didn't know what to do . . . so we made our own rules. And—it was ME who defied them . . . ! ME?!_

"Why ME?!" He squeaked out, "What changed?!" He shook his head. "I'll need to ask the Professor. He's still the same Professor the Professor's always been! The . . . Professor. Before everything changed, he still stayed the Professor even after everyone else changed! Er . . . I'll think that over later."

He grabbed a mango from a nearby tree, and began chewing carefully, walking along one of the many paths they had created.

* * *

Seven came sooner than expected. Gilligan rung his hands nervously in his lap, pacing back and forth outside the cave. He sighed, and called out, "Okay, I'm coming! Whoever you are."

He went inside.

There were two platters sitting over the fire, with buttered and seasoned corn on the cob, baked potatoes, and chicken. Gilligan's jaw dropped.

He closed it again—sitting on the opposite log of where he was headed was a little girl. She sat straight up in her seat as their eyes met.

He took off his hat and walked forward. "I thought you'd be a little older . . ."

She wore a faded pink, ballet dress, and black hair covering her shoulders. She smiled, "My name's Angelina. Nice to finally meet you."

"I'm Gilligan. Nice to meet you too. I haven't seen anybody besides the others in _years!_"

She smiled. "I haven't seen anybody in about a month, until last week."

_Angelina can't even be ten years old!_

"May I sit down?"

She nodded, and he took his place.

"I haven't had anything to eat in years either!" He began inhaling the sweet, sweet food.

She laughed. "The people I was shipwrecked with were smart. We savored our food for about a year."

"How much food did your ship have?!" He began on the corn.

"We were a thirty-foot yacht. Lots of food for our charity balls. One lifted anchor and storm later, we were on a neighboring island to this one." She laughed, "Nobody knew what on earth to do! All we knew was that there was plenty of food on the island, and still lots from the ship."

Gilligan listened intently, and swallowed his mouthful of corn. "We were a charter boat, me and the Skipper. We were giving five passengers—the Howells, the Professor, Ginger Grant, and Mary Ann—a three-hour tour, and then we wound up here! And we've been here for almost ten years."

"_Ten?!_"

"_Almost_ ten. Only eight years."

"Eight?!"

"Why, how long have you been shipwrecked?"

"Since I was six and a half."

"When was that?"

"Two years ago."

"Oh," he nodded. "Well, who were you shipwrecked with?"

"My parents—Teddy and Emily Shrowd. We were the ones who hosted the party. And then our captain, Jonas Bumbey, and the first mate, Willard Gouchill. Bunny, a secretary for my parent's company, Roy Chuck, my home-school teacher and father's best friend, and then me. We were celebrating my mother's birthday that night. Somebody raised our anchor—nobody would confess, so we still don't know who—and we were caught in a storm. Two years ago, that was."

Gilligan looked at her with wide eyes, listening intently, and chewed slowly on the baked potato. "Where is everybody, if you've been together for two years? You have, haven't you?"

She shrugged, playing with her chicken. "I don't know what happened. One day we were all the closest of friends, and the next—Jonas and Willy were fighting about who dropped the anchor. They began to throw out accusations, and soon everybody started to fight. When it turned into *'_Lord of the Flies_,' I had no choice but to leave. Made a raft, gathered food and stuff, and left."

"What's '_Lord of the Lies?_'"

"'_Lord of the FLIES_.' One of my favorite books ever. It's about a bunch of boys who are shipwrecked together, and they form two groups—the hunters, who have basically lost hope of being rescued and turn away from society, and then the others who still have hope. They all turn on each other, and forget all about society until the very end."

"How can you lose hope? There's always hope!"

She shook her head sadly. "They just went mad. It _had_ been two years, after all."

"Those poor boys - did they ever get back to civilization?"

"Well, yes. But I was talking about _my_ group of castaways."

"Oh, sorry. But we've been here eight years, and when we went mad, it was," he counted on his fingers, "around five years ago! Maybe six. Point being, where are they now?"

"Still on the island, I guess." She was quiet for a moment before saying, "At least, I hope they're still there."

"Maybe they're looking for you. Did you tell them that you're leaving?"

She shook her head. Both were done with their dinners by now. "They wouldn't listen to me. Kept fighting all the time. I was almost scared to be around them, most of the time."

"Gosh . . . I almost feel that way around the Skipper. Over the years, we made a schedule, and—and I sorta broke it. Everybody hates me now, but I can't get back into it! I _can't_ deal with it anymore!"

She looked down for a moment, and then back up, grinning. "We can run away together! Find a new island, start over!"

He smiled sadly. "But I can't leave them. I can hide, but I can't leave the island."

Angelina frowned. "Hide?"

"Like when I was hiding from the Skipper in that cave, but he found me and dragged me back out and we were both so mad!" He sighed. "I'm sorry, Angelina, but I can't run away with you."

"Call me Angel. My parents used to."

"Angel," he nodded and grinned, "I like that. Especially with your dress, it's pretty. Hey! Maybe I can introduce you to everyone back at camp, and that'll break the schedule!"

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I'm positive! Well, I'm Gilligan—but I know this'll work!"

"But if they're so set on forming a schedule, won't they just work me into it?"

"Oh. Yeah," He slumped over. "I guess you're right. I just want everything back to the way it was! In the beginning, when we were all still close!"

"Well, you can tell them about what I went through. See if that helps them realize where they're heading."

He frowned. "What does that mean?"

"We were perfectly fine off until the first fight broke out. Sure, we sometimes got tired of each other, but that was the first serious fight we ever had. We all had lost hope of rescue, and they were the first ones to break."

"Like the Skipper and I . . ."

"Exactly."

"Can't _you_ just tell them what happened to you? And the other people that you were shipwrecked with?"

"No."

"Why not? It's easy, no need to be shy—"

"It's because I won't be there."

* * *

Gilligan woke up with a gasp. He was under a coconut tree, surrounded by the hummingbirds. He got up, and ran to the cave.

Nothing was there. Not even the logs they had sat on, or any impressions.

"What—a dream?!" He gasped. "Angelina was a dream?!" He stumbled out of the cave, and fell to his knees as a realization came. "Hey, I still have her story! _I still have her story!"_

He ran back to camp to tell the others. It hadn't been an entire day, like it was in his dream. Just a few hours. He still had the time to tell them everything.

* * *

They all sat there, listening to his tale, as they ate their lunch. Soon enough, out of fascination with Gilligan's vivid explanations (such as running away from the imaginary hummingbirds and showing how Skipper carried the firewood), they stopped eating altogether.

As he finished retelling Angelina's tale, a sort of change came over everyone—a realization. Especially after Gilligan told them about his freedom theory.

It suddenly hit everybody that it was absolutely true.

He finished, letting it sink in for everyone.

Mr. Howell spoke up, done thinking it all over. "My dear boy, you may be onto something there."

"It has been a bit dreary on this island for quite some time now, hasn't it?" Mrs. Howell said.

"Was it always this quiet?" Mary Ann asked, "I mean, I thought there would at least be some birds out or something." She frowned. "Was it just me, or did we have background music those first few years here? It was never this quiet on here, never this—this _empty_."

Skipper shook his head. "It's true, though! Gilligan, little buddy, how did you figure that one out?"

"It drove me crazy how much all of you hated me. So, Emily the hummingbird helped start it in my dream. But do you guys believe it?"

"Believe it?" Ginger shook her head. "Honey, I barely understand it . . . But I trust you." She nodded. "After those first few years, things _did_ change. Like . . . like something left us alone here."

"Yes," The Professor said, "We seemed to go into a state of—well. Numbness. I wonder what caused it?"

Gilligan shrugged. "I dunno. All I know is that things seemed to lose their everything and interestingness. It got boring."

"Oh, Gilligan!" Mary Ann hugged him. "To think, I treated you so horribly for so long!"

"It's okay Mary Ann, I know you didn't mean it."

"It all started," Skipper said, "after those **natives came here looking for a sacrifice to throw into the volcano. That was the last time we ever—ever felt that way. Why," his eyes widened some as he realized, "You know, I _still_ don't feel it."

"And what is it that you don't feel, Skipper?" The Professor asked, "Just humor me."

"Why, I don't feel . . . I don't know."

"No, think."

"I know!" Gilligan said, jumping up and down, "I know what it is!" He stopped. "Ooh. Never-mind, I forgot. Go on, Skipper."

"It's nice to see that some things never change," he grumbled. "I guess . . . maybe . . . hope? I don't know, it just felt like something—er, _someone_ left us that day. Yeah, that's it! Like my best friend left me that day!"

"But I'm right here, Skipper!" Gilligan pouted.

He placed an arm around the younger man's shoulder. "I know you are, Gilligan, little buddy. But I mean that it just felt that way—and after that, we went numb! Whaddya make of it, Professor?"

"I don't know how to explain it either. Perhaps there was a presence with us the whole time we were here, that we created ourselves through our exploits. Maybe it _was_ hope, but I don't believe it. Felt more like there was somebody there, cheering us on through everything. When they left, there was nobody there. We were alone. Notice as well—no headhunters ever came here again. Nobody who was stranded, a stowaway, mad scientist, nobody. I know that this is a deserted island, but there just seemed to be something about that presence we felt that drew people in. It's illogical, I know, but nothing else explains it. So, now that we know . . . What do we do about it? Gilligan?"

He looked up in shock. "Me?!"

"Yes, you. _Your_ subconscious mind figured it out. So what can _we_ do about it?"

"Ah-I don't really know. All I know is that everybody's sad, and I didn't like it. Er, don't. Didn't. Whatever—I guess we carry on with our lives. Fix the radio? It's our only thing connecting us to civilization. When we lost hope, we didn't listen to it that often anymore."

The Professor nodded. "That's on my to-do list, right after fixing Mr. Howell's polo pony."

"You may put the radio first, Professor," Mr. Howell said, "as it will be the number one priority now, on my request!"

He nodded. "Then it's settled. We fix the radio, our only window to civilization. We'll see what happens from there."

"What'll happen from there?" Gilligan asked.

"I don't know. I just said I don't know."

"No, you said, 'we'll see what happens from there,' Professor, that isn't the same thing."

He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. "Some things really don't change, do they?"

And as the castaways left the clearing that day, they felt something hang over the island—something they hadn't felt in a long, long time: the presence came back.

* * *

***- Warning: spoiler alert! Don't care if it's a little late, suckers!**

****- 'Gilligan the Goddess,' season three, episode thirty—the very last Gilligan episode we got to see (besides the cartoons)! Now that you know this, do you know what they're saying "left them?" Think about it.**


End file.
